


phantom shadows on the floor

by sirenofodysseus



Category: The Mentalist
Genre: Death, Gen, H/C 2017: Hallucinations, One-Sided Attraction, Panic Attacks, Poor Wainwright
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-22
Updated: 2017-06-22
Packaged: 2018-11-17 05:19:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,853
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11268732
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sirenofodysseus/pseuds/sirenofodysseus
Summary: "Hate to burst your bubble, Agent Wainwright, but you can’t exactly fire what you can’t see." Circa S4. Wainwright-centric.Written for the H/C Bingo prompt of "hallucinations".





	phantom shadows on the floor

**Author's Note:**

> I have no idea where this came from. I spiraled faaaar away from my original idea, but this story was so much fun to write.

“Welcome to your new office, Luther,” Gale Bertram tells him, his tone dripping with false enthusiasm. Wainwright eyes him in silent contempt. “I know it doesn’t hold a flame to your previous…”

 

“It’s fine, sir,” Wainwright interrupts. Bertram merely smiles and shuffles, almost as if he’s waiting for _something_ to happen. Wainwright glances over his shoulder at his new boss and offers a mirthless smile. “I’d like to get started.”

 

“Excellent.” He watches Bertram clap his hands together. “I knew I hired the right man, _Agent_ Wainwright. I’ll let you get right to it. Call if you have any questions.” And before Wainwright can say _thank you_ or ask _which key belongs to the filing cabinet_ , Bertram’s already out the door and he’s on his own. Sighing, Wainwright turns to the— _his_ —desk and begins to remove framed degree-after-degree from the box and sparsely places them around the brick and mortar office, because he has a feeling that he probably _won’t_ last six months at the CBI. He’s a man of academia, not of red tape, bureaucracy and mass murderers.

 

Bertram had known that too, prior to _offering_ the job to him—however, Bertram had needed the help and he had needed a _job_. Student loans, after all, weren’t cheap. Hence, in the cheapest suit and reeking of a five-dollar bottle of cologne, he stood.

 

“What am I doing?” He mutters to himself and he begins to recollect his degrees. He shouldn’t even bother to unpack, really. He shouldn’t even be _here_.

 

_Well, from this standpoint, you’re recollecting your degrees,_ Wainwright hears someone say from behind him. _It’s a true pity, really. You might be the only CBI head, who perhaps could survive a reckoning with Patrick Jane too._ In surprise, Wainwright almost drops his undergraduate degree as he turns to survey the unwelcomed visitor.

 

However, nobody is there.

 

“Hello?” Wainwright calls out.

 

His only response is silence and he brushes the whole thing aside as _new job jitters_.

 

::::

 

Reading Patrick Jane’s file is almost like watching a train wreck, Wainwright decides. There’s a lot of nothing and _then_ , there’s a whole lot of _everything_. He’s up until two in the morning with Jane’s file and even then, he has the strongest suspicion that he probably _won’t_ finish it before his first meeting with the Serious Crimes Unit.

 

Virgil Minelli wrote about the possible dangers of Jane’s influence on Lisbon.

 

Madeleine Hightower wrote about how irksome (and tricky) Jane could be.

 

Wainwright wonders what (or if) he’ll write about the man, who has seemingly lost it all and exhibits behaviors bordering sociopathy.

 

Setting the file down, Wainwright massages his temples. So far, he’s already of the opinion that the Serious Crimes Unit will be far more problematic than other units and he can’t just waltz in and lie down the law, as past predecessors had done. He’s got to be wily and cunning and above all, he’s got to be smarter than Mr. Jane.

 

_Good luck with that,_ he thinks he hears someone say, snorting, but Wainwright doesn’t bat an eye because he knows he’s alone. His secretary, Caitlyn, left hours ago and he’s locked the door to his office to keep out prying eyes (or unwelcomed company). _After all, there’s nothing like trying to get one over on a coldblooded murderer._

 

At the word _murderer_ , Wainwright glances up—sees nothing—and shakes his head.

 

“I could have sworn…”

 

_Didn’t your mother teach you that swearing is impolite?_ Wainwright startles as he leaps up from his desk chair, his fingers lingering on his firearm. _Oh, don’t go trigger happy on my behalf. You’ll end up taking out an eye, before anything else._

 

Wainwright blinks. “Where are you? _Who_ are you?” This must be a joke, he thinks. A gag that other departmental heads play on the fresh meat, only to make them think they’re losing their goddamned minds. Well, they might find it funny—but he doesn’t. He’s losing his patience at the lack of answer. “If you don’t stop this _immediately_ , I’ll…”

 

_Fire me?_ The voice interrupts, laughing. _Hate to burst your bubble, Agent Wainwright, but you can’t exactly fire what you can’t see._ Wainwright frowns. _However, it might be amusing to watch you attempt to file a claim with HR. So, go on. It’s not like I have anywhere better to be._

 

“Who. Are. You?” Wainwright asks again.

 

_Me?_ The voice asks, sounding almost disinterested. _I don’t think I should tell you who I am. You’d probably have a coronary._

 

“Doubtful,” is Wainwright’s solidary response.

 

The voice doesn’t respond.

 

::::

 

“We’ll be in touch, Luther,” FBI Agent Susan Darcy tells him, before leaving his office with a strained smile. Wainwright half-expects a phone call from Bertram, berating him for allowing Jane to bait Panzer into insulting Red John. However, as he kept trying to remind Bertram—it wasn’t _his_ job to reign Jane in. It was Lisbon’s and per usual, Lisbon was failing spectacularly.  

 

Not that he blamed her completely though. Jane wasn’t exactly trustworthy, loyal _or_ apathic and in turn, his ploys to acquire justice tended to err on the side of questionable actions _and_ ethics. Calling out to his secretary to cancel all remaining appointments for the day, he considers how he’s going to approach the subject of Jane’s teetering insanity to Bertram.

 

Or the very least, the uncomfortable (and possibly damning) subject that Patrick Jane _may_ be Red John.

 

_He’s not_ , he hears and Wainwright doesn’t glance upwards. _Although, I wouldn’t put it past Agent Van Pelt. Hell hath no fury quite like a woman scorned._ Wainwright snorts. Although he’s no closer to identifying the mysterious voice within his office, he’s almost gotten to the point where he just tolerates it. It’s nice to have someone, he finds, who doesn’t want to talk shop all day. Or, in this case, spouts off-the-wall suggestions as to who Red John was or wasn’t.

 

“You sound ridiculous,” Wainwright mutters.

 

_I’m not the one responding to a disembodied voice, now am I?_

 

Wainwright begrudgingly agrees.

 

_So, that’s the Agent Darcy you’ve been discussing,_ the voice speaks. _She’s pretty, if not a bit daft for her theory._ Wainwright bites his tongue. _And better yet, she seems interested in you_. Wainwright waves him off, because while she might be interested in him—he’s most certainly not interested in her, outside of a professional compacity. _We’ll be in touch, Luther. I’m sure the touch she’d like to…_

 

“Don’t even,” Wainwright interrupts coolly.

 

_You’re no fun._

 

::::

 

Bringing his fist down on the desk out of anger, Wainwright ignores the ringing of his phone and the shouts from Caitlyn to _answer his phone_. He’s shaking and he can’t stop the world from spinning, all because of goddamned Patrick Jane. He thinks he might be having a panic attack, but he’s not entirely _too_ sure. All he knows is that his chest is painfully tightening and he suddenly feels as if he can’t catch his breath.

 

_Breathe, Luther_ , he hears himself being told. _You need to breathe or you will pass out_.  It takes him several minutes, before he’s able to fully catch his breath. _I’d rather you not die, so excellent._

 

“If anyone’s going to die,” Wainwright mutters, recalling Jane’s _mama’s boy_ comment with a scowl. He had only been attempting to help the unruly consultant and while he _had_ ultimately fired him, it was for the best. Regardless of Lisbon’s pleads, after Jane had left to god only knows where. “It’ll be him.”

 

_He’s not worth it._

 

“No?”

 

_No._ Wainwright closes his eyes briefly. _Do not let your anger consume you._

 

Wainwright snorts. “He _humiliated_ me.”

 

_He’ll get his, I can assure you._

 

“I find that highly doubtful,” Wainwright replies, still attempting to reign in his anger. “Didn’t you know; Patrick Jane’s the golden boy? He can do no wrong.”

 

_Regardless of his status to Gale Bertram and the bureau_ , the voice replies, _he’s still an idiot, whose hubris will not go unpunished._

 

Wainwright smiles slightly at the comment. “Amen.”

 

::::

 

With his chin lulling against his upper chest, Wainwright’s on the verge of unconsciousness. His head aches and his mouth is dry, but his pride (or lack of therefore) keeps him focused by hurling insults at the man, who is posted to ensure he doesn’t escape from his restraints. He has no idea why he’s here, but considering the last thing he remembers is Jane’s betrayal, Lisbon’s kidnapping and Rigsby’s murder all at Jane’s hand; he has a sinking suspicion that his current predicament somehow involves the Serious Crimes Unit and Red John.

 

_I lasted a whole lot longer than six months_ , he tells himself post-humorously.

 

“I’m not above the removal of your tongue, you piece of shit,” Wainwright hears the guard bellow. “Just so you know, I _can_ maim ya—I just ain’t allowed to kill ya yet.” He nervously swallows at the less-than-thrilling news, because it means he eventually _will_ die and there’s so much he hasn’t done yet. He knows he probably has more to be worried about than his lack of marriage or his lack of a family, but…there’s just something about dying at the age of thirty-two that doesn’t settle well with him.

 

He’s also not about to beg for his life. He may not be a coward, but he’s absolutely terrified of dying.

 

_It’s not that bad_ , the voice whispers to him and in his weakened state, Wainwright manages to weakly smile. _On the bright side, you won’t have any more student loan payments to make._ Wainwright chuckles and the guard, already agitated, jabs him with a needle.

 

He screams.

 

_You’re going to be alright, Luther_.

 

“I’m going to die,” he mutters, panting and spasming, after the guard disappears from his view.  “I don’t _want_ to die.”

 

_It’s a lot like going to sleep._

 

“I somehow doubt that.”

 

_When have I ever steered you wrong?_

Wainwright blinks into the dim light of wherever he is, and opens his mouth to respond wittingly, when it occurs to him that _the voice_ isn’t replying to him from the comfort of his office. He’s being replied to in the throes of certain death and while he’s almost certain he’s now hallucinating (and probably has been the entire time, which explains so much), the voice brings him a feeling of calm that he hasn’t felt in quite some time.  

 

“I had plans. Grand plans.”

 

_I know_.

 

He falls silent.

 

_I promise you,_ the voice reassures him, _you won’t feel a thing._

 

“You can’t promise me that,” Wainwright responds, bitterly. “You’re just a figment of my imagination. You’ve been a figment of my imagination for months, and my _imagination_ doesn’t know any different.”

 

_Then why respond, Luther? If I’m a figment of your imagination, just say the words and I’ll go away. You obviously have it all figured out, after all._

“I’m…”

 

_You can’t._

“I could.”

 

_You won’t_.

 

“I don’t want to die,” he mutters again, fighting the pull of whatever he was injected with.  

 

_Not everyone does._

                                                                                                                             

He closes his eyes, his breathing leveling out. “I don’t…”

 

_I know_.

 

He doesn’t respond after that.


End file.
